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Cold Boys Kink Meme ([personal profile] coldboys) wrote2026-09-28 01:56 pm
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Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1

This is for prompts for all things general Polar Explorer RPF.

If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!

Under this umbrella you can prompt: 
  • Historical versions of Franklin Expedition(-adjacent) guys (Rossier, Gore/McClure, etc)
  • Madhouse at the End of the Earth/Belgica Expedition
  • Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration - Shackleton, Scott, Amundsen, Mawson
  • Andrée Expedition
  • Karluk Expedition
  • etc

Prompts in line with adaptations of Heroic Age stories can also fit here, for example if you want to specifically prompt Hugh Grant!Cherry from The Last Place On Earth getting wrecked (which someone really should). 

No blorbo too obscure for this post! EXCEPT: NO PEARY ALLOWED. God I hate that guy.



Rules: 

1. Be fucking nice. YKINMATO/KINKTOMATO at all times.
 
2. This meme is CNTW (Choose Not To Warn) but warnings are highly encouraged.
 
3. Prompts should use this format in the subject line: [SHIP], [DESCRIPTION]
e.g.
Mertz/Ninnis, sex crying
 
Solo gen can be prompted as well alongside (a) character name and description
e.g.
Gen, Emil Racovitza, discovering a crazy new fish
 
4. Fills should use this format in the subject line: FILL: [TITLE], [PAIRING], [RATING], [ANY WARNINGS]
e.g.
Fill: The Very Next Day, Cherry/Birdie, E, cw self-harm
 
5. One prompt per comment please. 
 
6. Multiple fills for each prompt are welcome! 
 
7. You don't have to be anon for your prompts or your fills but we do encourage it because of the vibe. You're also welcome to deanon your stuff by posting on AO3/Tumblr as you please! 
 
8. Feedback on prompts and fills is AWESOME; please take longer conversations to the discussion post.


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FILL: prix-fixe, de Gerlache/Léonie/others, E, heavy dubcon

(Anonymous) 2024-03-01 05:56 pm (UTC)(link)
The blindfold should have made things easier. They bent Adrien over the table and got to work; the first man was efficient, punishing. He kept himself quiet. And quite neat: he pulled out all at once and, presumably, spent into his own hand, leaving Adrien free to imagine he’d never been fucked at all.

“Five hundred,” Leonie reminded him, “five more for the ones who finish inside.”

Having determined that imagination would not be enough, Adrien turned to prayer. If the Lord had any mercy, this would go quickly, and he would manage to resist any physical stimulation long enough to avoid hideously embarrassing himself. If the Lord had any mercy, surely he would’ve granted Adrien a better way to fund his expedition than this.

This was another sort of debasement.

He had known from the outset that some of the funders Leonie might gather would already be known to him; he hadn’t known how eagerly he would be touched by the men who had thus far ignored him. Not one of them bothered to conceal his excitement. Pinches were stolen. Men chuckled in the corners. Whispers: de Gerlache père, le roi, la bouche.

And then someone pulled Adrien’s legs up, up onto the table, spreading them even wider than he knew they could go while leaving his aching prick bent down against the table's edge. The angle was unnatural, the stretch far enough to bring tears to his eyes. He had no hope of moving. Even as the unseen hands were pulling him apart, the next man was taking his place, slathering a cold oil over Adrien’s twitching hole.

His cry of shock was ignored. Rather: it was punished, swiftly silenced by Madame Osterrieth’s long, strong fingers pushing down on his tongue. She pressed in far enough to make him gag. And then she drew her fingers back, slowly, rubbing them over his tongue as he gagged and whined and the unknown man began to breach him.

Nobody heard, then, when Adrien tried to warn them; nobody was prepared for him to finish without further assistance. He slobbered and shivered most violently as it hit him, as some greedy stranger sent him soaring into that white-hot bliss he’d been hoping to avoid. The stranger fucked the come out of him and then abruptly withdrew, slapping him hard on the ass just as Leonie reclaimed her fingers. Adrien let out a cry so loud it must’ve been heard in the Netherlands. Worse, he let out another short burst of come, hips jerking down against the edge of the table while the man behind him laughed an unsettlingly familiar laugh.

Adrien decided against thinking through the sense of recognition.

The man pushed in again and Adrien truly saw stars, glowing bits of heaven dancing behind his eyelids as he was fucked past the edge of pleasure. Any attempts to push himself up were futile—he could only lay there on that table like a limpet, taking what he was given as real men laughed. Their leavings began leaking out of his ass after the third one, and dribbling down his thighs, a strange heat going cool and tacky on his skin. And still, they touched him. At some point, he simply lost count. It was around the time someone yanked his head up. And demanded he open his mouth.

In the end, he did take all of them: not just one at a time but in any configuration they chose, Leonie having declared that each and every act had its own price. Adrien took four in his mouth and—he hated himself—he loved it, loved the warm weight of each cock sliding over his tongue. He came a second time with his mouth and ass occupied, salty promises leaking down his throat as the man in the rear pumped his swollen cock hard. (This, Leonie informed him sweetly, was worth an extra 1500 francs.) One man fucked him so hard he couldn’t do anything but cry. The table was hard and cruel and cold, facing the wrong direction from the fireplace and too close to the window to get properly warm. Adrien knew he would have bruises. Another man asked Leonie if he could piss on Adrien, swearing to outfit the entire crew with fur coats and pants if Adrien opened his mouth to drink it.

She declined on behalf of the carpet.

After the room cleared, Leonie removed his blindfold. She took him down off of the table and led him into the suite’s bath, guiding him into the big claw-footed tub with soft, soothing murmurs of good boy and well done and I'm so proud of you, Adrien. He nearly sobbed when he felt the water. She helped him, then, and touched him gently, washing him as tenderly as a mother might their child. She even dried him, and dressed him, and drew him towards the bed.

But the bed wasn’t empty.

Adrien cried when she began touching him, bitter tears that stung his cheeks as she stroked his aching prick back to a semblance of hardness. With enough time, and her fingers inside him, she managed to coax his body into submission, just enough so that she could mount him herself. It burned. Every bit of him cried out for relief from the stimulation, and still, she ground herself down on top of him, roasting him inside the oven of her sex as he sobbed into his elbow. She seemed to be flaying him, peeling back every inch of his skin to play over his raw nerves like a piano’s keys, each little jostle of her body on top of his own working another weak sound of protest out of his throat. He spent inside her with a wrecked sob, just the smallest burst of fluid as all the muscles of his body screamed in pain. She stayed to rub herself off—he wailed, noisily, as she dug her nails into his skin—and then slipped away, exposing his burning flesh to the cool, soothing air of the hotel room. Adrien nearly vomited. All he could do was retch.

In the aftermath, as his vision blurred, Léonie came to sit beside him, gently smoothing his hair with her fingers as he shivered on the sheets. “You are just darling, Adrien,” she said sweetly, “and you’ll come back again next week, yes?”

She placed a check on the table.

Only 16,000 francs to go.
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